


Subservient

by bonebo



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: dubcon, pet!Drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1992885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Time to get up, pet.”</i>
</p><p>(inspired by shokkuwebu's pet Drift ideas on tumblr)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subservient

How he'd gotten here, how he had fallen this low; these things he has forgotten, and if he's honest with himself, for that he's almost grateful. Because if he did remember the past—if he did remember fighting and struggling and striving to keep himself—then it would only serve to remind him of his present.

Of how he lost, how he submitted, and how he let himself go.

__

Kaon is the first one he sees, when his processor boots up and his optics come online—Kaon and the dark room that Drift has come to call home, in the ship that he is not allowed to call his prison, with the mechs that he is only allowed to call his masters. It's Kaon and that unnerving sightless stare, and then the voice that crackles softly. 

“Time to get up, pet.”

Pet. That's all he's ever called anymore— _pet, my pet, good pet, bad pet_. Gone is his name and with it his pride, and he remembers how Tarn's touch hurt when he tore Drift's interface panel off of him, how his voice rumbled as he spoke, _”What use has a pet for dignity?”_

None, Drift supposes, and he submits because by now it's just easier.

Kaon clips the leash to his ever-present collar, and Drift is so far gone he doesn't even need the tugs at his throat to move; he quietly crawls after Kaon, staying close to the other mech's heels, and when Kaon stops outside of Tarn's berthroom, Drift is still right beside him.

“Alright.” Kaon drops into a squat, his blind gaze fixed on Drift and that vacant smile on his faceplates; he trails a servo over one helm finial, then scratches lightly behind it. “Go wake up Tarn and the others. Be a good pet.” He unclasps the leash, stands, and helpfully opens the door.

The inside of the room is dark, lit only by the running lights that trim the baseboards, but by now, Drift can more or less feel his way around.

He crawls quietly, listening to the soft rumble of Tarn's engines—still so powerful, even in recharge—and he pauses as he detects another sound. It's softer, more a hum than a rumble, and Drift's been pinned beneath it enough to know the sound of Vos's motor.

He has to admit, this makes things a bit trickier.

Drift reaches the berth and sits up, peering at its occupants; Tarn is the first he sees, his hulking frame dominating most of the space, but tucked up against him is Vos, his body curled and supple and relaxed. 

It's a good look for him, Drift thinks fleetingly, and then shame rushes in hot and forces him to abandon that line of thought.

To distract himself, Drift quietly crawls onto the berth, delicately settling himself between Tarn's legs.

(He doesn't notice the way that Tarn's thighs spread slightly, the barely-there rev of an engine no longer in recharge, but Vos does notice, and for Tarn, that is fine.)

Drift lightly traces his fingertips along the smooth interface panel, and even he is unsure if the motion is of longing or simply to stall. Either way he finds himself gently working a claw into the manual release and watching as the panel slides back, and then he's presented with a barely-pressurized spike and from there he's on autopilot.

It isn't until the spike is fully pressurized in his mouth that he notices Tarn has come online—and his only indication is that heavy servo on his helm, forcing him to take the thick thing deeper, and he can't keep from choking as it probes at his throat tubing. There's shifting from Vos, and Drift has just enough time to glance over with coolant-brimmed optics and watch as Vos disappears from his sight completely.

Finally Tarn relents, his servo lifting, and Drift jerks off the spike with a wheezing ventilation; he watches blearily as Tarn sits up and shifts backward, his back resting against the wall, and then his wrist is being grabbed and he's pulled into Tarn's lap.

“Good morning, pet,” Tarn murmurs, amusement thick in his voice and touch searing as it roams over Drift's plating; claws rake down his backstruts and he arches, a soft hiss leaving him. Tarn laughs, then, that deep rumbling sound, and when his fingers graze across Drift's exposed valve Drift can't hold back his shudder.

He hates himself for knowing that it's only partly because of fear.

Tarn's servos come down again, shifting Drift around and positioning him so he is kneeling with his back to Tarn; Drift is plaint in his grasp, moldable like so much clay, and when he feels the blunt tip of Tarn's spike nudge at his valve he lets his helm drop.

The first ridge is always the hardest—Drift tells himself this but it does nothing to ease his pain. He's absurdly grateful for whatever slide his oral lubricant can lend, and tries to rock into the stretch as Tarn's servos pull his hips down, down, down. It feels like an eternity passes before the first ridge slides home inside him, and he lets out a shaky vent of relief, only to groan as he remembers there's fragging _five more_. 

Tarn has modifications on his spike. Drift is sure of it.

He's also sure that Vos is still in the room, and his question of where is answered when slim servos grasp his chin. Drift lifts his helm obediently and Vos slides in front of him, sitting on the foot of the bed with his thighs spread and spike extended; Drift hesitates only a moment before going back on autopilot, and he stifles his groans of pain with the slender spike between his lips.

At last Tarn fully sheaths himself, and Drift cannot contain his cry when the last ridge is pushed into his valve—he's absurdly full, as he always is when interfacing with Tarn, and by now the stretch should hurt less but it doesn't. It's still just as painful, even moreso when Tarn grabs his hips and starts to lift them, and Drift claws at the berth and tries to focus on Vos's spike and succeeds in choking himself.

Vos doesn't comment but Tarn laughs, slapping Drift's aft as he forces his hips to bounce faster. Drift's reply is a strangled yelp, a hitch to his intakes as the spike slams against his insides, stimulating nodes so hard and with such burning pleasure that it makes him feel like he's being consumed by fire.

Maybe that's what Tarn really is.

A roaring, raging fire, burning everything it touches and leaving nothing but ash in its wake—Drift feels his spiritual side flaring up and as much as he'd like to indulge it, he simply cannot. Because at the moment he has a valve full of Tarn's fury and a mouth stuffed with Vos's silent devastation, and all it takes is a few more good flexes of his throat tubing to start the end. 

Vos finishes first, pulling Drift's helm down in the first real act of dominance thus far and holding him at the housing of his spike as he pumps transfluid into his throat. A shock of pain tears through Drift as the delicate tubing is brutalized, and his frantic swallow must do things for Tarn because before his mouth is even empty there's a roar from behind and he's being filled again. Vos finally pulls away, and holds his spike out for Drift to lick clean; it takes Drift a moment to pull together enough coordination to obey the silent command, because in the midst of Tarn shooting transfluid into him he had somehow sent Drift stumbling into one of the most powerful overloads of his life.

Laving short licks over the narrow, glossy spike, Drift is afraid of what that means for him. 

But he has little time to worry over it—because then Tarn is pulling out, and Drift's screech is half of pain and half of loss, his frame shaking all in shame as he's shoved off the berth. Tarn nudges him with a foot, an amused grin on his faceplates, and Drift collects himself long enough to press a reverent kiss to the metal of the ankle joint.

“Good pet,” Tarn comments, satisfaction rumbling in the deep timbre of his voice, and Drift hates himself for the faint sense of pride the words give him.


End file.
